End game of Trump

In an absurd way I will miss him. Miss the crazy kick in from a side field, the sacking of another minister, the lies, the terrible lies, the absolutes, the biggest, the best, the squeeze box hands, the denial of climate change, the calling of names, the obvious narcissism, the meandering speeches. Why? Yes, I know, it all distracted from the main game, the climate change, the trade, the collaboration. Yes, I know he encouraged unhealthy dualism, them and us, division, extremes, open discrimination, walls, that will be so tough to heal, with 70 million still voting for him. If it wasn’t so fatal for so many of us, it would have just been plain theatre. His obviously bad existence made our lives seem so much fairer and better, we were not him – this has to be a Satre idea, but I cannot find reference to it.

We’ve got ordinary Jo from Delaware, the man with the stammer, the one who like other normal people faced tragedy, loosing his wife early on in a car crash, his son a few years back to cancer. A veteran US Senator for 36 years, 3rd time lucky attempt at the Presidency. His promise to his dieing son to remain in public service played out this evening, as, with customary modesty, he announced in all probability he would be elected.

His story and that of Bartlet from West Wing, inter weave in my dreams that night as I could not distinguish one story line from another. With petrified dogs beside us – bonfire night explosions – we began the evening by toasting democracy in sparkling wine, ate Cropwell Bishop and digested 4 episodes of West Wing. The Filibuster was memorable. As everyone had to wait for the aging senator to give way, they wrote letters home to their fathers and mothers, loitered in corridors in conversations. I’ve fallen in love with this series now 20 years old, which I must have missed first time round by being in India.

Meanwhile Trump played golf. Back in the UK, our COVID-19 deaths reached 50,000.

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